


A Hairy Situation

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hair, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 01:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: A young Celegorm questions his hair color after a remark from his older brother.Written for the "Solve a Problem" challenge on the Silmarillion Writers Guild.





	A Hairy Situation

Arafinwë had been sleeping soundly until he heard the door open. He looked up, not seeing anyone, and rolled over and went back to sleep - until he felt a hand tugging on his hair.

Looking at the little boy to whom the hand belonged, he recognized the third son of his half-brother Fëanáro, the little boy with light hair that currently had a strangely-cut chunk missing. It wasn’t the same shade as his, which the boy was clearly discovering as he splayed out the locks next to the chopped-off portion of his own hair, comparing. He seemed intent in his purpose, but Arafinwë merely felt confused.

Why was the boy in his bed? He barely knew the child. He had greeted him officially when the family arrived, and he recalled him being adventurous, racing off to explore the palace as the older boys stayed politely by their parents. As far as he could remember, he seldom stayed in one place, nor did he have any particular reason to be here.

“Turko?” he asked softly, reaching out a hand towards the child, and hoping he was doing the right thing.

“Uncle Arafinwë,” he said in a surprisingly solemn voice.

“Are you well? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he said.

“Where is your atar?”

“With Amil,” the boy responded after a slight hesitation.

“Did he ask you to bring me a message?” He didn’t know Fëanáro all that well, but he knew he was extremely overprotective over his sons, and there was no reason for him to send his son when there were servants abound in the palace who jumped to fulfill his needs. Not to mention, there was little that could convince Fëanáro to send for him in the first place.

“No,” he mumbled.

“Does he know you’re here?” Arafinwë asked, sitting up taller and throwing a tunic on over his bare chest. If Fëanáro didn’t know his son’s whereabouts, he would be frantic, angry, burning. This was not good news for anyone in Tirion, let alone Arafinwë.

“No,” Turko confirmed.

“Let’s go find him,” Arafinwë said, reaching out a hand once his tunic was buttoned, trying to lift the child. Turko squirmed out of the way.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled.

“Why not? Did you fight?” Yes, Fëanáro had a terrifying temper, but Arafinwë had never known him to show anything less than kindness to his sons.

“No, but Káno…”

Arafinwë tried to remember which of the boys was Káno. The oldest, he knew was Nelyo, from the way the name had insinuated that both he and his brother Nolofinwë didn’t exist or matter in terms of Finwe’s line. He took it as less of an insult than Nolofinwë, but then again, their relationship was less tenuous. It could have been the baby, but he seemed to recall the shyer child, the one who looked a little like Nolofinwë, had a name beginning with K. “What happened with Káno?” he asked, wondering if the child was injured or otherwise needed help.

“He said… he said…”

The words sounded like he had felt sometimes after interacting with Fëanáro, and Arafinwë began to understand what was going on. “Did you fight with Káno?”

“He said I don’t look like him,” Turko said, showing the fistful of hair he mingled with his uncle’s. “He said… he said maybe it was because you’re my atar,” he admitted, his voice soft and wavering.

“That was cruel of him to say,” Arafinwë said, recalling how Nolofinwë had consoled him when he had trailed after Fëanáro, only for him to say that they were not and could never be brothers. The words had hurt him just as much, and looking at the little boy whose hair was almost as blonde as his own, he couldn’t help but reach out to him. “I know your Atar would be angry with him for saying that.”

“But Nelyo looks like Amil, and Káno and the baby look like Atar,” he whined.

“Everyone looks different, Turko,” he said, desperately wishing someone would come along to get him out of this conversation.

“But I look like you,” Turko tried again.

“Not exactly,” Arafinwë said, pointing to the hair in his hand. “Mine is more golden, like Laurelin, and yours is more silver, like Telperion.”

Turko considered his words, looking more solemn than ever. “But no one has hair like Telperion in my family… does that mean I’m not in this family at all?”

“You are your atar’s son,” Arafinwë said in his most confident voice, and he was completely taken aback when the little elfling threw his arms around him. He stayed silent for several moments, trying to both comfort him and assess the damage he’d done to his hair. “Shall we go find him? I think he must be worried about you.”

“He will be mad,” Turko muttered.

“What is he like when he is mad?” Arafinwë asked, straightening out his own hair slightly before beckoning for the boy to jump off the bed.

“Not scary, like when he’s mad at Uncle Nolofinwë, but he looks sad, and stares away.”

Relieved that his half-brother at least seemed to treat his sons better than his half-brothers, Arafinwë took Turko by the hand and started to lead him back towards Fëanáro’s chambers, wincing when he saw the extent of the damage Turko did to his hair.

When they arrived, he knocked on the door twice, only to see a rather disheveled-looking Fëanáro. “What do you want?” he snarled impatiently.

“I have found someone important to you,” he said, and Turko shuffled forward.

Fëanáro fell to his knees - a rather unusual sight - and wrapped his arms around Turko before he called out to Nerdanel, who Arafinwë could see checking around various pieces of furniture in the background, a baby in her arms. “He’s safe, Nel, he’s safe,” he said before standing up and brushing the dust off of his tunic. “Why was he with you, Arafinwë?”

“I found him,” Turko said, thankfully drawing Fëanáro’s irate gaze away from Arafinwë.

“You found him? Did you go looking for him?”

“He did,” Arafinwë said, thinking it was safe enough now to speak. “I found Turko in my bedchamber this morning, and I brought him back to you as soon as I could.” He paused, not knowing what reaction his next words would bring. “Apparently, one of his brothers convinced him that he was not your son but mine, because of his hair. I told him he was entirely your son, and brought him back here so he could ask you properly.”

Sadness, rather than anger, flared in Fëanáro’s eyes. “If you would excuse me, I need to speak with my son,” he said. The door was soon shut in his face - after a surprising bit of gratitude from his half-brother - but Arafinwë lingered, wondering exactly how this was going to be explained.

He did hear Fëanáro speaking moments later, but the words were not at all what he expected. “Why would you think you are not my son?”

“Káno… he said I have hair like Un… like Half-Uncle Arafinwë, and that means I am his son.”

“Have you seen Nelyo? He does not look like me.”

“Yes, but he looks like Amil,” Turko said.

“And you look like my amil,” Fëanáro said.

“Your amil? But I thought you didn’t have one,” Turko responded.

“Her fea and hroa have separated, but she had hair exactly like yours, bright and silver like Telperion. She was beautiful, and I am so very proud to have a son who looks like her.”


End file.
